


We Are Nowhere And It's Now

by coricomile



Category: Bandom, Fall Out Boy
Genre: Dubious Consent, Kidnapping, M/M, Stockholm Syndrome
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-09-27
Updated: 2012-09-27
Packaged: 2017-11-15 03:31:08
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,216
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/522666
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/coricomile/pseuds/coricomile
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Pete unlocked his front door with the boy pressed up against it, thighs slipping down Pete's sides. The boy snuffled in his sleep and slapped weakly at Pete's shoulder, face scrunching up. Bad dream. Pete soothed a hand over his damp forehead, brushing his bangs away, and let himself finally look at what might have been his best steal ever.</p>
            </blockquote>





	We Are Nowhere And It's Now

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into Русский available: [We Are Nowhere And It's Now](https://archiveofourown.org/works/3467267) by [eivery_al](https://archiveofourown.org/users/eivery_al/pseuds/eivery_al)



Pete stared up at the house, eying the dark windows warily. The cars that usually cluttered up the driveway were gone, the front porch light off. Pete drummed his fingers against the steering wheel nervously, tapping his foot down on the brake. The radio played static as the clock flashed at him.

_12:41_

_12:42_

He’d been watching the Stump house for a week. It was big enough to have valuables, small enough to not have security. There were three people inside- mother and father and son, all hustling around each other in their own orbits. Pete felt like he knew them. Like he knew the scripts inside their heads. Not for much longer. Not after tonight.

Pete stepped out of the car and pulled his backpack from the passenger side seat. He closed the door quietly and glanced down the street, looking for any signs of life. No one came running. No one stopped him, or shouted _criminal. Thief_. He took deep breaths, walking calmly towards the front door, lock pick kit bouncing off his thigh with each step. 

The front porch was shaded, rocking chairs at each end, the wood faded by time and wear. A board creaked under Pete’s weight as he knelt by the door. He sucked in a breath, hands frozen on his pockets. The air burned in his lungs as he held it, waiting for someone to see him, to point him out. When he realized no one was coming, he shook his hands, shook his head.

_This is the last house,_ he told himself. _One last house, and you’re set._

It didn’t calm his nerves, but it gave him the strength to keep his hands steady as he unfolded his lock pick kit, as he slid the hook into the lock and pressed his ear to the door. The tumblers groaned, but, one by one, they popped open until, finally, the lock clicked. Pete let out a long breath through his nose. He was in. 

The Stumps were making it too easy. There was a wallet clip on the living room table, a laptop on an armchair. Jewelry in the dining room. Pete slid his backpack off his shoulders and began shoving what he could inside. He searched the kitchen for cash stores, pumping his fist when he found a stack of fifties at the bottom of a cookie jar. He slipped two laptops into his bag, eyed the gaming consoles in the living room. 

The bulk of the laptops were filling the largest spaces in his bag, already weighing him down. Pete gave the DVD players and game consoles a sad look before heading up the stairs. He ducked into the first bedroom and grinned to himself. Jackpot.

Mrs. Stump’s jewelry box was filled with rings and necklaces and trinkets that sparkled enough to catch a pretty penny at the pawnshop, if not a real jeweler’s. Pete upturned the entire box into his bag, listening to the rattle as it went down. He checked under the mattress for another cash store, disappointed when all he found was porn. The closet produced collector’s coins and an army pocket watch. The dresser coughed out a handful of crumpled tens. Pete did a second round of the room before ducking into the next one.

He slid open the top drawer of the dresser closest to the door, shoving boxers and undershirts out of the way to feel at the smooth grain of the wood. He was about to shove it in and go for the second drawer when a soft snore rose from the behind him. Pete stiffened, hand tightening on the strap of his book bag. Slowly, he turned and dared a glance at the bed.

There was a lump in the middle, bundled up in plaid covers, head covered to the top. On the nightstand, there were dozens of crumpled tissues, spilling out into a pile on the floor, curling around a toxic green, half-empty bottle of Nyquil. Pete took a step forward. Another. The figure in the bed coughed, the covers sliding down to his chest as he turned from one side to the other, legs tangling in the under sheets. 

This was not the boy Pete had seen. He was too young, too small. Pete bit the inside of his cheek to keep from cursing, one foot sliding back behind the other, ready to escape. The boy in the bed coughed again, his thick, pink lips open against his pillowcase. Pete stilled. 

The boy’s face was round, pink-cheeked around his pallor. His hair was red, messy around his head, greasy with the sweat that stuck it to his temples. He pressed his thumb to his lower lip in his sleep, the memory of thumbsucking from his past. The sleep shirt he wore had risen up over his hip, showing the faintest traces of babyfat sticking to his middle. He had to be no more than sixteen, sweet and ripe.

Pete wanted to take him.

Pete grit his teeth and pressed his thumbnail into his palm. There was a difference between stealing things and stealing kids. He couldn’t- stealing this kid wouldn’t bring him any closer to Paris. He _needed_ to get to Paris. That was the whole point of turning breaking-and-entering into a new sport. 

Carefully, Pete inched forward until he was next to the bed. He held his breath, leaned down to look closer. The boy sniffled. Something beat hard in Pete’s chest, and his hands slid from backpack to bed sheets to soft, hot skin. The boy turned his cheek into Pete’s touch, Pete caved.

The plastic dose cup on the nightstand was still wet around the sides, Nyquil bleeding down into a sticky puddle at the bottom. Pete held his breath and hoped that the kid was a heavy sleeper. Slowly, carefully, he pulled back the sheet, breath held until it made him lightheaded. When the boy was bared on the bed, curled in around a pillow, Pete let his breath out in a rush. 

Sweat slid slick down Pete’s back under his backpack as he wrapped wary fingers around the boy’s wrist. He moved gently, pulling the pillow away, fitting his hands under the curve of the boy’s arms to heft him up. The kid coughed weakly, but his eyes were shut when Pete looked up at them. 

The kid was heavy, the firm lines of his arms and roundness of his stomach a little less tempting when faced with the added weight. Pete slid one arm under the bare crook of the boy’s knees, the other under his back. He steeled himself, planting his feet on the carpet, and lifted.

If things were going to go wrong, Pete hoped it would happen then, when he could still hightail it out without injury. If the kid woke up while Pete was putting him in the car, things could get messy, fast. Pete closed his eyes and swallowed down the fear. He wanted this boy, and he was going to have him.

Gingerly, he took small, even steps across the room, trying to balance himself between the kid’s weight at his front and the weight of his backpack on his shoulders. When he reached the stairs, he sent up a little prayer and stepped down, one minute step after another. The kid squirmed when they reached the bottom platform, his hot forehead pressing into Pete’s throat.

“Shh,” Pete whispered hoarsely. “I’ve got you.” The boy sniffled, but he held still, legs and arms hanging limply down. 

The walk from stairs to living room to front door seemed to take longer than it had before, each footstep louder. Pete hefted the kid up higher in his arms as he reached for the doorknob, twisting it open awkwardly. The night was colder. The boy squirmed again, turning, nearly falling out of Pete’s hold. Pete scrambled to catch him, cursing under his breath as he fell back against the porch wall. 

“Jesus, kid,” Pete huffed out, shoving himself forward. His arms were getting sore, shaking a little under the boy’s weight. It took most of Pete’s willpower to walk to the car instead of attempt, and most likely fail, to jog there. 

It was harder to open the backdoor of the car, and his hands fumbled blindly caught in the bunch of the kid’s underwear stuck on his thumb. Pete breathed a sigh of relief when the door clicked. Carefully, he bent, ducking into the car, nearly on top of the kid as he laid him out as gently as he could. 

“Shit. You’ve got to be freezing.” Pete slid his backpack off his shoulders, tossing it onto the floor, and unzipped his hoodie. He tucked it around the boy’s thighs, fingers skimming over the soft skin, nails scratching through the thin, soft hair there. “I am going to jail, and then I’m going to Hell.” 

Pete shook his head and closed the door before sliding behind the wheel.

\---

Getting the kid into his apartment was surprisingly easy. Somewhere between the car to the front door, he’d managed to prop the boy up enough to hold him like an oversized toddler, one arm under his ass, the other around his back. His heels thumped against the backs of Pete’s thighs as he walked, and his head rolled on Pete’s shoulder, but he slept peacefully enough.

The apartment was really one half of a duplex, the house cut into an even split. Pete had the right side, and was pretty sure the left side was only used once or twice a month by a man and his mistress. He’s broken into it a few times, disappointed to find almost nothing each time. The heat vents rattled, and there was never enough hot water, but rent was cheap, the neighborhood was quiet, and the landlord never bothered him. 

Pete unlocked his front door with the boy pressed up against it, thighs slipping down Pete’s sides. For the first time since entering the Stump house, Pete stopped and let himself look at what might have been his best steal ever. The kid snuffled and slapped weakly at Pete’s shoulder, face scrunching up. Bad dream. Pete soothed a hand over the boy’s forehead, brushing his bangs away. 

Pete had never been happier to have a ground floor bedroom. He kicked his way through the clutter of wires and clothes on the floor until he reached his unmade bed. Slowly, he lowered the kid down onto it, covering him all the way up to his chin.

\---

The kid didn’t scream when he woke up, which Pete appreciated, but he did curse. A lot. Pete rubbed the sleep from his eyes, yawning into his hand. His back ached from sleeping on the couch, and his mouth felt too dry. He shuffled his way to the bedroom where he could hear the boy trying to yank the door open.

“Hey,” Pete said through the door. “Calm down, dude.”

“Where am I?” The kid asked.

“With me?” Pete plopped himself down on the floor, crossing his legs. “So, first of all, you sleep like the dead, kid. Seriously.”

“Let me go.”

“I’m not holding on to you,” Pete pointed out. “Look, I’m Pete, and I, uh, stole you.” There was a brief silence on the other side of the door, and then the flurry of curses and pounding on the door reached a fever pitch. “You’re gonna hurt yourself. Calm down.” Pete winced when the kid coughed, wet and loud. “That sounds pretty gruesome. Oh, hey. What’s your name? I can’t just keep calling you kid.”

“I want to go home.” The boy hit the door one more time before settling down next to it. Pete pressed his palm flat against it. He could feel the kid’s heat through the wood.

“I’m fun, really. And if you stay here? You won’t have to go to school, or do chores- well, maybe help cook, can you cook?- or work or whatever.” Pete pulled his hand back and wrapped his arms around his legs. His jeans were dirty and creased. “Just. Be my friend?”

“Are you going to hurt me?” The boy asked quietly. Pete winced.

“No, no. I don’t-“ He sighed and pushed himself up onto his knees. “Hey, if I open the door don’t, like, hit me or anything, okay?” There wasn’t a reply, but Pete took the chance anyway. He took the block off the lock and turned the doorknob carefully.

Inside, the kid was curled up in a ball in a corner, head on his arms. He sniffled, and Pete’s heart hurt when he realized it wasn't because of his cold. Pete slid down next to him, ignoring the wince that he was met with when he rubbed the boy’s tense shoulders.

“Hey, hey, it’s okay,” Pete said softly. “What’s your name?” The boy mumbled something into his knees. “Come on, it’s okay.”

“Patrick.”

“Hey, Patrick,” Pete said quietly. “I. I steal a lot of things. But I like you best.”

“I’m not a thing,” Patrick said, lifting his head. His eyes were red, the edges of tears in the corners of his eyes. “I’m a person, and you _kidnapped me_.”

“I wanted you,” Pete said, scratching at the back of his head. “I don’t want to hurt you, okay? I won’t. Promise. I just want. You.”

Patrick stared at him, eyes narrowed. Pete smiled wide, trying to be disarming. It came as a shock, then, when Patrick cocked his fist and smashed it across Pete’s jaw. Pete nearly toppled back, hands flying to his face. 

“Ow, dude. _Ow_.” Pete rubbed at his face, peeking out through his fingers. Patrick was looking at him, tensed like he was waiting for retaliation. “Okay, I might have deserved it, but still. Look, I just want your company, okay? I’ll give you anything you want for it.”

“I want to go home.”

“Try me on for size,” Pete said, pushing himself up. He offered his hand. Patrick glared at it, pulling his knees closer to his chest. “Come on. I’ll make you pancakes.” Pete kept his smile in place, arm outstretched until it hurt. Timidly, like he was reaching for a rabid dog, Patrick placed his hand in Pete's. Pete's grin felt more real. "That's the spirit."

Patrick let Pete help him up, pulling his hand back when he was on his feet. There were goosebumps on his arms, the fine hairs standing on end. Pete grimaced.

"I forgot clothes." He scratched the back of his head, eying Patrick's waist. The chunk was a good look on him, but it ruled out Pete's pants at least. "Shit. Um." He turned to his closet, yanking out hangers and tossing them on the bed. Finally, he found his old soccer sweats, and he crowed, feeling accomplished.

Patrick hadn't moved, which Pete was thankful for, but he seemed to be taking in his surroundings, eying the posters on the walls, the photographs of friends Pete hadn't seen in years. He jumped when Pete tossed him the sweats.

"I'll have to find you something else later," Pete said sheepishly.

"Pete," Patrick said softly as he pulled on the sweats. There were tight around his hips and thighs, a little long. He looked like he belonged. Pete's heart swelled. "Why did you take me?"

"Dude, don't do the slow you're-an-idiot thing on me," Pete replied, clicking his tongue. "I told you. I wanted you." Pete took Patrick's hand again and tugged him toward the kitchen. 

Patrick sat at the table, silent while Pete busied himself with the pancakes he'd promised. His heart was thudding in his chest, his mind racing. He was so stupid. He'd taken this kid, and he- No. It would be okay. He'd ask Joe if he could spare a little cash, sell what he'd taken from the Stump house, and buy tickets to Paris. It would be okay.

"You can, like, watch cartoons or something," Pete said over his shoulder, spooning the first of the batter onto the griddle.

"I. Can you understand why I'm upset right now?" Patrick asked, dropping his head to the table. He ran a hand through his hair before looking up. "Do you, like, have lack of, shit, what is it? Empathy? Like, do you not connect?"

"I am extremely empathetic," Pete answered. He flipped the pancakes and tapped the spatula against his thigh. "I'm lonely, Rick. I don't want to hurt you, y'know? I swear, seriously. I just want to make you breakfast in the mornings, and watch TV with you at night, and maybe kiss you somewhere in between."

Patrick's shoulders went rigid, the flush from his cheeks fading rapidly. Pete swore. He flipped the burner off and sat across the table from Patrick, trying not to notice the way the boy flinched back.

"I'm sorry. That. That didn't come out the way it was supposed to."

"I'm not- I want to go home." Patrick sucked on his lower lip, snuffling. Pete touched the back of his hand gently.

"I'm not going to hurt you," he said again. "Just. Let me have you for a while, okay?" Patrick’s fingers closed as he couched. Pete scrambled to grab him a glass of orange juice. When he turned around, Patrick was holding his head in his hands, fingers in his hair. 

“If I. If I stay here, how long until you let me go home?” Patrick didn’t look up when Pete sat the orange juice next to him. Pete grinned and turned back to his pancakes.

“A week. Just give me a week.” Pete placed a stack of pancakes proudly in front of Patrick. Patrick stared up at him, and Pete’s heart sunk. “If you don’t want to stay after a week, I can bring you home.”

“And never take me again?” 

“…And never take you again.”

\---

Pete sat at one end of the couch, Patrick on the other. There was a small pile of balled up toilet paper on the floor in front of Patrick’s feet, the rest of the orange juice carton at his side. Even with his cherry-red nose and watery eyes, Pete couldn’t stop staring at him. He couldn’t stop the voice in the back of his head saying _this is the best thing you’ve ever stolen_. Pete scooted closer, lifting the edge of the quilt over Patrick’s lap to cover his own. Patrick leaned into the arm of the couch. 

“Why do you steal?” Patrick asked, still staring at the television. Pete thumbed his nose and inched closer.

“Dude, you can’t laugh, but.” Pete pulled his legs onto the couch, listing sideways to rest his shoulder against the boy’s. He pretended not to notice how tense it was. “I’m going to Paris to be a fashion designer.” There was a pause. Patrick looked over at him, nose bumping against Pete’s forehead, and, then, he laughed. It was a little bitter, but Pete fell in love with the sound instantly. 

“You really think people are going to dress like you?” Patrick wasn’t smiling, but Pete could feel some of the tension edge off. Pete scrunched his nose.

“I am a fantastic designer,” he said. “I just don’t have the cash on my own.”

“…Get a job?”

“Three hours at the coffee house a week does not a plane ticket make,” Pete said. When he turned his face into Patrick’s neck, Patrick’s arms went tight, but he didn’t move away. Pete smiled.

\---

The pile of tissues was bigger, and the empty orange juice container had been replaced with a two empty bowls of what had been tomato soup. Patrick had stopped tensing every time Pete touched him, but the one time Pete had tried to hold his hand, he’d jerked away hard enough to nearly knock himself off the couch. Pete took it in stride, camping out on Patrick’s lap, prodding at the kid’s stomach until he turned _Mythbusters_ on. 

Patrick was nearly asleep, head nodding down and jerking back up every few minutes. Pete yawned and looked up at the clock. It was nearly midnight. An entire day spent with Patrick. Pete grinned to himself and rolled to the floor. 

“Wake up,” he said quietly, shaking Patrick’s thigh. He fell over backwards when Patrick’s knee jerked up, hitting him in the chest. Patrick didn’t apologize. Pete laughed. Patrick looked terrified as Pete led him into the bedroom, clutching the quilt to his chest. “Hey, dude, it’s okay.”

“Are you- Do I have to-“

“No! No!” Pete held his hands up, trying to be as unassuming as possible. “I mean, if you want to-“

“Not really,” Patrick said flatly.

“Oh.” Pete felt his shoulders hunch. He crinkled his nose and shucked his jeans off. Patrick’s eyes got wide, his shuffling steps backwards a kick to Pete’s gut. “Hey, I just want to sleep next to you, okay? You’re skittish.”

“I wonder why,” Patrick replied. He waited until Pete was under the covers to step forward. His eyes closed, he slipped in as far away from Pete as he could, curling in on himself. Pete flipped the light off.

The silence hurt. Pete stared at the back of the boy’s head, listening to his stuttered breathing. Eventually, the tightness in Patrick's back faded, his curl around his stomach loosened. 

Pete raised one hand, pressing it flat against Patrick's back. He could feel the last of the boy's fever fading out through his shirt, could feel the hitch of his breath as he dreamed. Pete hoped it was about him.

\---

Sometime, in the middle of the night, Patrick had turned in his sleep, burrowing up against Pete’s chest. Pete woke to his warmth and a mouthful of dirty hair. He smiled and tilted his head up, wrapping one arm around Patrick’s waist. Things were going better. This was proof. 

The sunlight filtering in through the window kept Pete from falling back into sleep. He rubbed his hand over the soft curve of Patrick’s side before slipping out of the bed quietly, heading towards the kitchen. 

By time he’d made eggs and toast, he heard Patrick’s soft cough, the creak of the bed as he rolled out of it. Six footsteps later, he could see Patrick's pink face above the quilt he'd wrapped himself in. Pete smiled brightly at him. Patrick scrunched his nose and shuffled to the table, yawning without bothering to cover it.

"Morning, sunshine." Pete placed a plate in front of him, settling down across from him. Patrick grunted something that could have been a greeting. "Is your cold any better?"

Patrick sniffled once, but it sounded clearer. Pete sat up straighter in his chair. This meant he could take Patrick outside, maybe buy him something. Pete winced, thinking about his Paris stash. He could afford to spend some of it. It just meant prolonging trip, was all. Patrick, with his pink nose and messy hair, was worth that.

After breakfast, Pete dug through his closet again until he found a pair of his brother's old jeans and a t-shirt that Joe had left over. He handed them and a towel to Patrick and marched him to the bathroom.

"Pete," Patrick said when he stepped past the door. "Can I call my mom today?" Pete's heart dropped. Patrick must have seen something in his face, because he started to reach out before thinking better of it, leaving his hand dangling in midair. "I won't tell her what happened. I just want to let her know I'm okay." 

"Yeah," Pete replied finally. He dropped his chin against his chest, feeling young and chastened. “Um, hey, I don't really have a lot of clothes that you can wear so. I was. Do you want to go to the mall?"

Patrick stared at him over the pile of clothes in his hands, blinking. Pete scratched the back of his neck self-consciously. He was ready to turn and go back to the living room, but Patrick cleared his throat.

"Aren't you, like, worried I'll run away, or whatever?" He asked. 

"Not really," Pete answered honestly. "I mean, I haven't done anything to make you want to run, have I?"

"...You kidnapped me."

"Stole you," Pete corrected, waving a hand. "It's different."

"Right," Patrick said slowly, blinking.

"So. Do you want to go?"

"Um. Sure." Patrick took a step back. "I'm gonna..." He waved a hand at the shower. Pete nodded, heading back to the kitchen when he heard the lock click.

Pete was watching an old episode of _The Powerpuff Girls_ when Patrick walked into the living room. The jeans were long, covering Patrick's bare feet as he shuffled forward. They hugged the curve of his thighs and hips, though, tight as anything Pete wore. The shirt was tight across Patrick's broad shoulders, the faded logo clinging to the little swell of his belly. His hair was ruffled and wild, still wet, and his cheeks were pink and clean. Pete wanted to keep him forever.

"I, uh, threw my dirty clothes in the hamper," Patrick said, crossing his arms over his stomach. "Can I call mom now?"

Pete handed over his phone, pressing star-six-seven before Patrick dialed his home number. Pete could hear the ringing, his heart thundering in his chest. What if Patrick turned him in? What if Patrick was really calling the police? The ringing clicked over to a voicemail, and Patrick's shoulders slumped.

"Mom, it's me," he said softly. "I'm sorry I left. I. I needed to help a friend. I'm okay." He closed his eyes, lower lip wavering a little. "I'll be home in a few days. I love you." 

When Pete pulled him into a hug, Patrick didn't fight it.

\---

The mall was busy for a Thursday, filled with kids that were probably skipping classes. Pete had driven them to the mall farthest from Patrick's neighborhood, talking nonstop to fill the silence. 

Patrick let Pete hold his wrist as he pulled him from store to store, looking for clothes. Pete thought Patrick was finicky. Patrick told him that he had a dick, thank you, and it liked breathing room.

Patrick finally broke in JC Penny’s, taking the pile of clothes Pete had filled his arms with into the dressing room, mumbling darkly to himself.

"You know," he said as he modeled the fourth pair of too-tight jeans, "I don't really need that many clothes if I'm only going to be with you for five more days."

"I have absolute faith in my charms, Rick," Pete responded. "You'll be begging to play sleepover by the week's end."

"I bet." Patrick rolled his eyes and stepped back into the dressing room.

In the end, Pete bought four pairs of jeans, three t-shirts, the ugliest sweater he'd ever seen, and three hats. Patrick didn't say thank you, but he did let Pete link their fingers together loosely on the way to the food court.

"So," Pete said around a mouthful of lo mien, "tell me about yourself."

"I'm sixteen and being held hostage?" Patrick raised his eyebrows pointedly as he bit into his egg roll. "Is that a good start?"

"You're being _cherished_ , not held hostage." Pete tried not to take the tightening of Patrick's jaw too seriously. "No, really though. Like, what do you like?"

Patrick was silent for a moment, chewing thoughtfully, chopsticks tapping a soft staccato beat on the table. Pete tried not to stare too hard.

"Music," Patrick finally said. 

"What kind?"

"All of it." Patrick stuffed another bite of egg roll into his mouth. Pete ignored the signal and kept on.

"Do you play?" He asked, leaning in over his plastic tray. At the table next to them, a girl threw her soda into the boy's face. Pete hoped it didn't give Patrick any ideas.

"Yes."

"...Can you elaborate, maybe?" Pete grinned at the touch of pink over Patrick's cheeks.

"Piano, trumpet, drums, guitar." Patrick ticked them off on his fingers, frowning for a second. "Violin, if you get me in the right mood." He shrugged. "Basics."

"...That's kind of astounding, dude," Pete said. His heart beat an agreement. Best thing he'd stolen, for serious. The blush across Patrick's cheeks deepened.

"Whatever," he mumbled, dropping his eyes back to his plate. Subject closed.

\---

Patrick also liked really cheesy 80s movies. He was camped out on the couch, changed into a new t-shirt and Pete's old sweats, a knit cap jammed down over his head, legs folded under him as he mouthed along to _Pretty in Pink_. Pete found it ridiculously endearing.

What he didn't find endearing was the small dent in his Paris funds. He stared down sadly at his checkbook and rubbed his forehead with the back of his hand. He glanced back up at Patrick and felt a little of the tension in his shoulders fade. It was worth it. It would be okay.

Patrick scooted over to make room for Pete on the couch, eyes still locked on the television. Pete sighed. The youth of today had no imagination. 

When bedtime came again, Patrick didn't fight it, or shy away. Pete appreciated this. He also appreciated the way Patrick seemed to be taking to the apartment, acting like he owned it. Pete could arrange that, if Patrick wanted. Would like to arrange it.

Patrick slept with his face pressed flat into the pillow, one hand under his stomach, the other on the pillow next to his head. His thumb touched his thick lower lip, twitching every so often as Patrick dreamed. Pete wanted to watch him for the rest of his life.

\---

Again, Pete was greeted in the morning with Patrick pressed up against him, legs trapped by one of Patrick's, nose itching from strands of errant hair. He. He could get used to this. Patrick snuffled in his sleep, butting his head up under Pete's chin and scooting in closer. Pete's grin froze on his face.

Pressed up against his stomach, hard and obvious, was Patrick's morning wood. Pete swallowed and closed his eyes. Theft was one thing- and he still totally counted Patrick as a steal- molesting a sleeping boy was another. Even if it was tempting. Even if Patrick started it.

Reluctantly, Pete wiggled himself free of Patrick's octopus hold, trying to ignore the soft gasps as he rubbed across Patrick's hard on. With Patrick covered to the chin in sheets, erection tenting up through them, Pete made a mad dash to the bathroom and jerked off, coming faster than he had in years.

\---

The computer that Pete assumed was Patrick's was loaded with half-finished GarageBand work files. Pete listened to them, track by track, as he scrounged in the kitchen for a suitable breakfast. 

They were good. Unpolished. Raw. But still promising in a way Pete hadn't heard for a long time. It made him nostalgic for garages and basements and shitty bars at three AM. He was nodding along to one track, humming a bass line that wasn't there, when the music cut off.

Patrick, hair sticking up on one side of his head, t-shirt still rucked up over one hip, stood at the kitchen table, his hand on the now-closed lid of the laptop. His eyes were narrowed, mouth in a steady frown. Pete felt like he was about to be sucker punched.

"You don't have the right to listen to those," Patrick said coolly, chin jutted up.

"I didn't know you'd have a problem with it," Pete mumbled. "Sorry." He squirmed under the weight of Patrick's glare, head down like a scolded child. "They're really good-"

"Don't play them again," Patrick said darkly. Pete nodded. He could do that.

Breakfast was tense, filled with silence that made Pete's skin itch. So far, he hadn't done such a hot job of making Patrick want to stay. He chewed on his toast, sighing when Patrick left the table in favor of showering. The laptop hummed. Pete tucked it back into his backpack.

\---

Patrick was in better spirits when he sat carefully on the couch next to Pete, fresh and damp from the shower. Pete tried not to let his grin show through.

"So, you're not. Normal." Patrick pulled his legs up, timidly setting them on Pete's lap. Pete wrapped his fingers in the denim of Patrick's jeans, ignoring the insult. "Like, I never kidnapped-"

"Stole."

" _Stole_ anyone, but I watch, like, cop shows, and usually the kidnapper-"

"Thief."

"Fuck you. The _thief_ has a reason for it." Patrick narrowed his eyes, watching Pete carefully. Pete fought the urge to wink at him. "So, you're not going to hurt me." Pete tried not to feel hurt at the small lift at the end of his sentence. "And you're not trying to get a ransom, or whatever. So. Why did you take me?"

"Patrick, Rick, Pattycakes-"

"Never call me that again, seriously." 

"Rickster, we have been over this." Pete uncurled his fingers and followed the line of Patrick's shin through his pants, stopping at his knee and reversing directions. "You were there, dreaming your music dreams, and I fell in love."

"That makes you sound even creepier than you already are," Patrick pointed out. Pete shrugged.

"It's the truth. I wanted you then because you were a pretty little thing," Pete started, smiling at the blush that crept its way across Patrick's cheeks, "and I still want you because, even though you're kind of pissy, you're pretty much the most awesome thing ever."

Patrick was silent, his lower lip sucked into his mouth, feet bouncing a little in Pete's lap. Pete nearly toppled off the couch when Patrick suddenly jerked forward, pressing his mouth, wet and firm, against Pete's. Before Pete could kiss back or cheer or pull Patrick closer, Patrick threw himself off the couch and locked himself in the bedroom.

\---

Pete spent most of the day staring at his own bedroom door, pouting to himself like a child. Between these fits, he cleaned the kitchen, watched four episodes of _Buffy the Vampire Slayer_ , and frowned at a box of brownie mix for a half hour in consideration.

Pete was pulling the brownies out of the oven with a towel, cursing as he felt the heat through the thin cotton, when Patrick came out. He looked sheepish, hat low over his forehead, eyes not-quite meeting Pete's. Pete held up a brownie as an offering.

They settled onto the couch quietly, the plate of brownies balanced on their knees. Pete stole glances at the soft profile of Patrick's face, heart thunder in his chest. 

"I'm blaming it on Stockholm Syndrome," Patrick finally said, stuffing the last of his brownie into his mouth. Pete perked up, hopeful. "Just so you know."

"I am one hundred percent okay with that," Pete replied. The careful look on Patrick's face broke, a small grin at the corners of his mouth. "Um. Can I kiss you, then?"

"I guess."

Pete nearly knocked the plate to the floor in his rush to do just that. His hands curled around Patrick's shoulders, his front pressed a little awkwardly to Patrick's side. Patrick tasted like chocolate and kissed back hesitantly, his fingers light on Pete's arms. 

When Pete pulled back, Patrick's cheeks were pink, his lips red and slick. Pete flashed back to the morning, thought about Patrick hard against him, and nearly doubled over.

"So, not to, uh, worry you? But if you don't want me to, like, get you naked right now, you might want to go back to the bedroom." Pete kept his eyes closed tightly, head in his hands. Patrick's hand on his thigh made him jump. 

"I, um, maybe wouldn't mind?"

Pete ran to the bathroom and locked himself inside.

\---

Patrick was asleep on the couch when Pete finally gathered the courage to go back to the living room. He was curled under the old afghan that Pete's grandmother had knit years and years ago, remote in one hand, thumb of the other just inside his mouth. Pete smiled fondly despite himself.

“Hey,” he said softly, shaking Patrick’s shoulder. He’d learned his lesson the first time, moving out of the way before Patrick’s arm jerked out, the remote clattering to the floor. Bleary blue eyes blinked up at him, unfocused. Patrick looked away from him quickly, rubbing his eyes with the heels of his hands.

Pete stripped down to his underwear and crawled into the bed, keeping to his side. Patrick followed him in, head down, arms crossed over his stomach. Pete watched him, berating himself. He wanted Patrick so much it hurt.

“Pete?” Patrick asked after a while. His shoulders were tight, his legs curled in against his stomach. Pete made a soft noise to let Patrick know he was listening. “Why- If this is what you wanted, why did you stop?”

“Because I don’t want you to feel like you have to,” Pete said. “I want you to want me.”

“What if I do?” Patrick curled in tighter, back bowing towards Pete under the covers. “What if I don’t run away because I think you’re the most interesting person I’ve ever met? What if I’m happy that you took me?” 

“Patrick-”

“What if I like you being fucking creepy?” He asked, voice pitching up. “What if- what if it makes me feel like I’m special?” Pete scooted forward, wrapping his arms around Patrick’s waist, and pulled him back. Patrick turned in his arms, pressing his face to Pete’s chest. 

“You _are_ special, dude,” Pete said into his hair. “Jesus, you made me fall in love with you _while you were asleep_.” Patrick snorted, fingers curling around Pete’s arms.

“That’s so fucking cheesy.”

“It’s a specialty,” Pete said around a grin. “Seriously, though, you’re amazing. Don’t ever think anything else, okay?”

“This is so fucked up,” Patrick mumbled around a yawn. Pete couldn’t disagree.

\---

The first thing Pete noticed when he woke up was that there wasn’t a Patrick attached to his chest. The second thing he noticed was that, instead, there was a Patrick kneeling over his legs, touching his stomach with gentle fingertips. He blinked, opening his mouth. Before he could say anything, though, Patrick’s hand slid down, down, down, until it rested over Pete’s crotch. Very carefully, he pressed the heel of his palm down against Pete’s half hard dick. 

“Shit.” Pete lifted his hips, rocking up into Patrick’s firm touch. “This is fighting dirty.” Patrick laughed and shook his head.

“No,” he said, leaning down. He licked a broad stripe over Pete’s tattoo, grinning. “That’s fighting dirty.” Pete whined. He lifted his hips when Patrick tugged at his underwear, kicking them off eagerly. Any questions he had about Patrick wanting it were squashed when Patrick- sweet faced Patrick- bent forward again and wrapped his mouth carefully around the head of Pete’s cock. 

Pete’s eyes widened as he watched Patrick work his way down, as he felt Patrick’s gag reflex catch. He clenched his hands in the sheets to keep from grabbing at Patrick’s hair, thighs shaking with the effort to keep still. Patrick wrapped a hand around what he couldn’t fit in his mouth, bobbing his head steadily lower. 

“You can fuck me,” he said, licking a slow swirl up the underside of Pete’s dick. Pete thumped his head on the bed, screwing his eyes shut. If he watched Patrick’s red, wet mouth open up over him again, he was going to explode. “Come on Pete,” Patrick urged, pulling off with an obscene pop. “I can take it.”

Pete was only human. 

He scrambled up, yanking Patrick to his chest. Patrick laughed against Pete's mouth as they kissed, his hands fluttering across Pete's sides. He tasted like stale mornings and precome, but Pete didn't care because this. This was the boy he'd been so moved to steal rubbing up against him. This was his little treasure moaning against his tongue.

Patrick laughed again when Pete yanked his shirt up, eyes wide and bright and cheeks pink. Pete helped to ease him onto his back, sucking sweet marks onto Patrick's chest as he went. He slid his hands under the waistband of Patrick's sweats, smoothing his hands across the hard, lean muscles of Patrick's thighs as he pulled them off. 

Patrick's dick curled up against his round little belly, thick and blood-dark against his pale skin. Pete wrapped his hand around it, pumping slowly. Patrick moaned softly, hips lifting. Pete had never seen anything more perfect.

Patrick whined when Pete stopped, watching with his wide, dark eyes as Pete reached into his nightstand for lube and a condom. He spread his thighs easily, sucking on his lower lip as Pete trailed a hand over his hip, adoration written across his face.

When Pete slid a slick finger inside of him, Patrick arched up, hips leaving the mattress. Pete pressed him down, laying his forearm over Patrick's hips to keep him down. He licked a long, wet stripe up the underside of Patrick's cock as he pressed a second finger in. Patrick squirmed, whining in the back of his throat.

"Patrick," Pete said against the boy's thigh. "Have you done this before?"

"Not- shit, do it again- not on this side." Patrick bit his lip, staring down at Pete. He rocked his hips and groaned, dropping his head back against the mattress.

Pete pinched the thumb and index finger of his free hand carefully around the base of his dick and tried not to come on the spot. Gently, he slipped a third finger into Patrick, crooking up until Patrick jerked against him, breath ragged.

"Come on." Patrick bent his knees, toes digging into the sheets. "I'm ready. Come on."

Pete rubbed over the soft bump of Patrick's prostate again before pulling his fingers out, already tearing at the condom wrapper with his other hand. He took deep, steadying breaths as he rolled it on, taking in the soft flush across Patrick's chest, the damp curl of his hair against his cheek.

Pete crawled up and cupped the soft hollows of Patrick's knees, leaning forward to kiss him as he slid slowly inside. He swallowed down Patrick's gasp, fighting to slow himself down. 

Patrick was so tight, squirming and moaning and so fucking responsive. Pete rolled his hips, groaning as Patrick rocked back against him. Patrick locked his legs around Pete's back and pulled him in, fingers digging into his shoulders.

"Fuck." Pete snapped his hips forward. "Fucking. You're so hot, fuck." He dropped his hand from Patrick's thigh to wrap it around his dick, fingers getting sticky with precome. Patrick thrust up into it, jerking back down against Pete. He came messily between them, voice cracking on his low moan. 

Pete thrust a handful of times into him, coming deep inside him. He rolled onto the bed, breathless. Shakily, he tied off the condom and tossed it at the wastebasket. Patrick curled into him, sweaty and hot and wonderful. Pete pressed a kiss to his forehead and sighed, smiling to himself.

\---

Pete was kind of in heaven. And horribly, horribly sad. 

Patrick was sitting on the kitchen counter, feet swinging back and forth, typing an e-mail to his mother as Pete made lunch. He hummed softly as he clicked away on his laptop, all signs of his cold gone. Pete could get used to having him like this.

Pete's heart ached.

He served Patrick a sad little grilled cheese sandwich, crawling up onto the counter to sit next to him. Patrick was warm against his side, already familiar. Pete turned and pressed a kiss to Patrick's temple. He didn't answer the questioning look Patrick shot him.

"I'm going to take you home," Pete said quietly, sliding off the counter.

"Pete?"

"I. You should be home." Pete dumped his uneaten lunch into the trash and ran an unsteady hand through his hair. Now or never. 

"Pete, why...? What happened?" Patrick stared at him, fingers clenched around his plate. He tensed his jaw, and, suddenly, the Patrick of three days ago was back. "Was it not good enough? Not what you thought it was going to be?"

"Patrick-"

"Fuck you." Patrick dropped his plate onto the counter and walked stiffly to the bedroom. Pete followed after him, unsurprised when the door slammed in his face.

"Patrick," he said through the wood, thumping his forehead against it. "Patrick, you're perfect, okay? You're fucking perfect."

"Fuck. You."

"Rick, please." Pete closed his eyes. "If I don't take you home now, I won't let you go." 

There was silence on the other side, and Pete felt like he might fall over. The choice was taken from him when the door wrenched opened under him, sending him sprawling to the floor. Patrick glared down at him.

"You don't get to make choices like that," he said. "You've been making choices for me since I got here." He knelt down next to Pete, hands folded in his lap nervously. "I want to stay." He touched the brim of his hat, lowered his hand to tentatively touch Pete's knee. "At least one more day. Please."

"Stockholm Syndrome?" Pete asked, smiling softly at Patrick's laugh.

"Stockholm Syndrome."

\---

They were lying on the couch in the living room, watching _Hostel_ , trying to keep from toppling to the floor. Pete was squished between the back of the couch and Patrick's solid weight in front of him, one arm wrapped around Patrick's waist, the other asleep under his head. Patrick's hat- which he refused to take off- blocked most of the television, and Pete was starting to worry a little about his arm falling off.

There was no other place he'd rather be.

Patrick squirmed at whatever was on the screen. Pete scrambled to hold him on the couch as he tried to turn over. Their noses bumped, faces close enough together that Pete felt himself go a little cross-eyed as he tried to look at him.

"Hi," he said, rubbing the cold tip of his nose against Patrick.

"Hi." Patrick grinned at him, tangling his legs up in Pete's to keep himself steady. He tucked his head under Pete's chin. "When are you going to Paris?"

"I don't know," Pete answered, curling his fingers in Patrick's shirt.

"Try not to steal anyone else." Patrick's voice was muffled, even, but Pete could hear what he meant. _Don't replace me. Don't forget me._

"You're my biggest treasure, Rick," he said. "I'm not giving you up that easy."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah." Pete traced the soft curve of Patrick's hip with his fingertips, mapping out the places he'd like to lose himself in. Patrick tilted his head up and brushed his lips over Pete's, and Pete got his chance to do just that.

\---

The drive to the Stump house felt like a funeral march. Pete had tucked all of the Stump's things- Patrick included- into the car sadly, hanging his head. Patrick, still dressed in Pete's sweats, curled up on the passenger's side seat and rested his forehead on his knees as Pete locked the apartment up. 

It was still early morning, the sky grey and thick with storm clouds. Patrick was silent as Pete started the car up, silent as they started back to his neighborhood. Pete stole long glances at him, heart breaking with each stop sign. He wrapped his fingers around the bare skin of Patrick's ankle to comfort himself as much as Patrick.

"I'm going to be grounded until I'm thirty," Patrick said, finally turning his head to look at Pete. Pete laughed softly, rubbing his thumb against Patrick's shin.

"I'll know where to look for you then." 

Patrick tensed under Pete's hand as the car turned onto his street. He sighed when Pete pulled into the empty driveway. They sat quietly for a long, silent moment, staring up at the house. Patrick finally leaned over the center console and pressed a kiss to Pete's cheek.

"Don't get caught," he said as he pulled Pete's bag over his shoulder. Then, he was out of the car, walking barefooted to the door.

\---

Pete stared up at the Stump house, eying the front door warily. He drummed his fingers on the steering wheel nervously, foot pumping the brake. With a huff, he threw himself out of the car determinedly and marched onto the porch. Mrs. Stump answered the door, her hair tied up in a bun, apron loose around her waist. 

"Hi, I'm Pete. Is Patrick around?"

Before Mrs. Stump could answer, a blur of ugly sweater and familiar hat was at her side, pulling Pete in. She opened her mouth, probably to remind Patrick that he was grounded until the next forever, but Patrick cut her off.

"This is my math tutor," he said, fingers going tight around Pete's wrist. "I needed to catch up." Mrs. Stump narrowed her eyes, looking over Pete's tattoos skeptically. She shook her head and kissed Patrick's temple.

"No leaving the house," she said softly.

"I know, mom." He waited until she was gone to throw his arms around Pete's neck. Pete laughed.

"Math?"

"Shut up, dude," Patrick said into his neck. "I thought you were going to Paris?" Pete shrugged and held Patrick tighter.

"Paris can wait."

"Yeah?"

"Totally." Pete tucked his face into Patrick's neck and grinned. Definitely the best thing he'd ever stolen.


End file.
